


let our joys so multiply

by fallofrain



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I'm here to have fun and write fluff, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-09-23 09:43:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17077949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallofrain/pseuds/fallofrain
Summary: Jamie and Claire, raising a family in Edinburgh. It's all going great, until Claire gets sick.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to my very first Outlander fic. Dr Google and I did our best with all the medical stuff, please forgive any inaccuracies.

March is supposed to be an easy month. Winter coming to an end, flowers are blooming, and she and Jamie will take that long weekend they booked last year.

It’s supposed to be an easy month, but there’s been freezing rain all day every day of the past week, and William has been sick with the flu that’s going around. It’s bad enough that it’s turned her normally cheerful four year old into a clingy mess. She spent most of the last night sitting up with him in his bed, holding him in her lap so that he could rest comfortably.

She turns over and groans as a muscle in her back twinges in warning.

“Ye alright?” a large hand flops onto her stomach and pats.

“No,” she says. She cracks one eye open and peers at the clock on the side table. “My alarm’s going to go off in seventeen minutes.” It feels like she’s only been asleep for about that long.

“Ah.” The hand migrates upwards, and she squirms.

“A pity,” Jamie says, keeping his hand where it is. She keeps her eyes closed, hoping against hope that she’ll be able to fall back asleep. The hand wraps around her ribs and pulls her closer, tucking her underneath his chin. He presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “But there’s a lot that can be done in that time.” He pauses, and she considers.

She’s so tired that her head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool, but Jamie is surrounding her, warm and solid, his legs bracketing hers. She mentally flips a coin before cracking her eyes open and leaning her head back. Jamie’s eyes meet hers, tired but happy, and she bites her lip when his hand rubs at the back of her neck.

“I smell terrible,” she warns. “William threw up on me twice.” He grins.

“Ye’re terrible at dirty talk, Sassenach,” he says. He rolls her gently onto her back and kisses her until her toes curl. She sneaks a hand up the back of his shirt, feeling the play of his muscles as he kisses her. He jumps a little as she grabs his arse, and pulls back.

“That eager, are ye?”

“Twelve more minutes, Fraser,” she says, squeezing again. “We have to make it count.”

They’re well on their way to doing just that when a plaintive wail cuts through the air.

“Mama! _Mama_.”

She raises her head from the pillows and Jamie lets out a groan as he looses his grip on her hip.

“ _Mamaaaaa_!” William sounds pained enough that she sits up straight, narrowly avoiding crashing their heads together. Jamie puts a hand on her chest and presses her back down.

“I’ll go,” he says, and gets out of bed, only pausing to find his pyjamas in the blankets.

She closes her eyes, willing her body to lose the expectant ache caused by the man that’s just left her bed. Just as her body begins to relax into the covers, a shrill whine jerks her back to consciousness. She glares at her alarm which continues to blare, heedless of the ire aimed its way.

“No rest for the weary,” she mutters, and levers herself out of bed.

  
*

 

Bree is curled under her blankets when Claire goes to wake her, only a spill of bright red hair showing on her pillow.

“Wake up, love,” she says, rubbing a covered shoulder. It has about as much effect as talking to a rock, and she sits on the bed, peeling the covers back a little. Bree’s eyes are squinched shut, resisting wakefulness, and Claire smiles. She loves that she’s given Jamie a child that looks so much like him, but she likes to see these glimpses of herself from time to time.

“Come on, smudge,” she says, and her daughter’s eyes open, bleary.

“Hi, Mama,” she says muzzily.

“Hello,” she says. “Time to get up.” Blue eyes close again.

“Not yet,” she says, and curls up. Claire holds back a sigh and strokes her head instead.

“You’ll be late for school.” Bree shakes her head and shifts to the far side of the bed.

“Lie down with me, Mama,” she says, which is enough to make Claire stop trying to wake her. Bree usually hates to be babied, but she wriggles into her mother’s arms as Claire lays down, winding her arms around her and doing her best impression of a baby koala.

“Did you have a bad dream?”

“No.” Bree is soft and sweet-smelling from sleep in that way that children have, one side of her face creased from her pillow. Her eyelashes flutter against Claire’s collarbone and she feels her eyes droop. Maybe she’s feeling a little neglected, with William taking up so much energy.

Five more minutes, she decides, allowing her eyes to drift shut. It seems like she’s destined to spend the rest of her life surrounded by cuddly Frasers.

  
*

 

Breakfast is more rushed than usual, thanks to their late start. Bree shovels cereal into her mouth while Claire puts her hair into a french braid, and Jamie sits with William in his lap, trying to coax porridge into him. William keeps his face turned into his father’s shirt, eyes brimming with tears from the fever.

Ten minutes later Bree is standing by the door with her school bag, Claire is attempting to corral her hair into a work-appropriate bun, and William has perked up a little and allowed his father to put him down so that he can start the dishwasher. She and Jamie share a small smile, one of the we did it smiles of triumph that can only ever be between the two of them, and she leans forward to kiss him goodbye.

“I have a knee replacement and a few consultations today so I can leave by four and get Bree from Iona’s house,” she says, and he nods.

“I’ll go in late today and drop him with Mrs Fitz,” he says, nodding at William, who seems to be attempting to lick snot off his upper lip. “If she’ll take the wee savage,” he adds. He kisses her again and makes a grab for her arse as she dodges away, laughing.

She’s shrugging her coat on when she realises that her favourite scarf is missing. It’s patterned a deep green and brown and Jenny gave it to her as a gift the first Christmas she spent at Lallybroch. It’s survived more than a decade of Scottish winters, and she suddenly feels unequal to the task of braving the rain without it.

“Jamie?”

His head pops out of the kitchen doorway, soap dripping from his hands. “What?”

“My scarf is missing.” She flaps a hand at the coat rack. He opens his mouth to answer, but several clangs come from the kitchen behind him, and Bree tugs on her hand.

“It’s seven _forty five_ , Mama,” she says, and Jamie shrugs helplessly before ducking back into the kitchen to save it from destruction. She allows herself to be pulled from the house, wincing as freezing rain whips into her face.

  
*

  
William is much better when she picks him up from Mrs. Fitz’s flat. He gives her a hug and a piece of paper with multicoloured scribbles.

“See, that’s you,” he says, pointing to a sticklike blob with mustard-yellow dots for eyes and a wild scribble of brown at the top.

“Oh, well, this is beautiful,” she says, hiding a smile in the curls of his hair. “Is it for me?”

“Yeah,” he says. He wants to be carried down, but he’s alert and chatty as they walk to the car, skin cool against hers.

Jamie comes home to find her squashed in the middle of the sofa, the children sprawled across her while she does her best to read through a new study on her tablet. He drops a kiss to her forehead and loosens his tie, squeezing his considerable self into the miniscule space between William and the armrest.

“How’s the lad?”

“Better, she says, stroking the curls off his forehead. “Ate like a horse, talked my ear off about that dinosaur show he likes, and tried his best to wait up for you. Bree too,” she adds, gesturing to her daughter’s sleeping face.

“Oh, aye?”

“She wants an under the sea theme for her ninth birthday,” Claire says. “You can expect to hear all about it at breakfast tomorrow.”

“An early planner,” Jamie says with approval, and he sighs before standing. “I’ll take the weans to bed.”

Five minutes later, and Claire is stretched out on the sofa, revelling in the feeling, and Jamie chuckles.

“Dinna let me interrupt,” he says, grinning, and she rolls her eyes as she raises up a little. He sits, holding her head in his lap, and her eyes droop shut as his thumbs rub at her temples.

“And how are ye?” he says quietly, eyes intent.

“Better now,” she says, sighing as his hands slip into her hair. He runs his fingers through gently so he doesn’t pull, no easy feat, and she cracks an eye open to see him winding a curl around his finger.

“How tired are you,” she says, and the tone of her voice is enough to make him stop. His eyes change to a different type of intentness, the type that makes the muscles in her stomach tighten ever so slightly.

“No’ tired at all,” he says, and abandons her hair to slide his hands down until she shivers and makes a noise that makes him chuckle. He pulls her up so she’s in his lap properly and his lips latch onto her neck. She shudders. She had planned to let him spoil her, but a restless energy is filling her muscles, and she sits up, pushes on his chest until he is leaning back, and swings a leg over his lap so she’s straddling him. He recovers quickly and a hand settles over her hip, pressing her down on the hardness she can feel between his legs, while the other deftly unbuttons the old shirt that she likes to wear around the house. His hand cups a breast and she gasps, kissing him hard.

She stays like that for a while, taking his shirt off button by button, moving her hips in a slow grind, letting her hands wander across his defined chest and stomach, dipping down to taste his collarbone. He groans when she rubs their chests together, the friction of it sending her hips jolting down. She resists any attempt to speed up and presses on his shoulders to keep him still. He sighs, but allows her to set the pace. She doesn’t relent until his temple is beaded with sweat, the hands gripping her tight as if he is fighting very hard not to roll her onto her back and take over.

“Claire, please,” he says, breath coming short, and she stands up, tugs her leggings off, and leans forward to pull his trousers down. He holds onto her arms and pulls her back onto him and she straddles him again, spreads her legs, the slow pace driven out of her by the sudden urgency. She reaches a hand down to grasp him and he groans in her ear.

“Now, Claire,” he says, and pushes her hand away to guide himself inside her. She wraps her hands around his shoulders, tight, and buries her face in his neck. His grip on her is so tight that she can’t move, and so she sits still and trembles as stars flash behind her closed lids.

He manoeuvres them carefully so that she’s lying back on the couch, him hovering above her, and when he begins to move, the stars behind her lids become fireworks, exploding under every inch of her skin.

 

*

 

Three days later, a pile-up on the A720 keeps the emergency room filled for hours and the first six hours of her shift pass by with barely a chance to sit down. She ducks into a corner to stuff down a sandwich before her next surgery.

It’s a little boy around eighteen months old. His mother’s car had hit the side railing and smashed into him, shattering eight bones on the left side of his body. He’d been sedated by the time she’d got to him thankfully, but she’d had to avert her eyes from his face, round like William’s, framed by soft brown curls.

William is fine, she tells herself. He’s back in school, sniffles forgotten, and when she goes home tonight he’ll be tucked in bed asleep, curled around his favourite bear. Still, she takes a deep breath before straightening up and walking to the surgical suite.

 

*

 

It goes better than she had hoped in the end. He won’t be leaving the hospital any time soon, but he was stable all through surgery and they didn’t see evidence of any disastrous internal damage.

“That was amazing, Dr. Fraser.” Mary Hawkins is a junior doctor who most strongly resembles a startled deer in both appearance and mannerisms, but Claire finds it in her to shoot her a tired smile.

“Let’s hope he makes it through the night without too much trouble,” she says without breaking stride. “Check on him when he’s settled, please. Make sure he’s comfortable.” Dr Hawkins nods and falls behind as Claire enters the emergency room.

The emergency room is still chaotic and she heads straight towards Geillis, who is standing behind the desk, fielding about four conversations at once. Geillis looks more like a conductor than a doctor, her graceful hands gesturing as she turns from person to person, fire-red hair escaping from her bun. Geillis has always thrived in chaos, Claire thinks.

“Ah, there ye are, Dr Fraser. We could use reinforcements,” Geillis says, eyes sparkling in a way that is just slightly inappropriate for an emergency room. Claire sighs again, internally.

“Point to where you need me,” she says.

 

*

  
She swings by to check on the little boy on her way home. He’s alone in the paediatric ICU, and a nurse shakes her head when she pokes her head out inquisitively.

“His mother died in the crash,” she says. “We’re trying to locate more family.”

His chart says that his name is Thomas Ayers. He doesn’t stir as she sits by him and picks his hand up carefully. He’s covered in plaster, and Claire knows exactly how many pieces of metal are holding him together underneath.

His cheeks are flushed and warm, his breathing deep and slow. He’ll be awake by morning, in pain, and he won’t know where his mother is.

“Poor little duck,” she whispers. “You’re going to have a hard time of it.”

She leaves him after a while. She loves her job, she does, but some days more than others it feels like it takes more than it gives.

 

*

 

The house is quiet when she gets home. She toes her shoes off and pads upstairs, skipping over the creaky step as she goes.

William is asleep, arms and legs thrown out in an X shape, his bear clutched in one hand. He turns his head toward her as she kisses him.

“Shhh,” she says, smoothing out the tiny wrinkle between his eyebrows, and he sighs before subsiding into sleep, his bear falling to the floor. She picks it up and tucks it next to him, leaning over to pull the blanket over him more securely, when she sees a familiar flash of brown and green under his pillow. She pulls on it gently and her favourite scarf unfurls. She stares at it for a long moment, and then at William, defenceless and trusting, sleeping face turned towards her, and she tucks the scarf back under his pillow.

  
*

Bree is still awake, but is doing her best impression of sleep. She gives it up when Claire pokes at her cheek, her mouth quirking up into a reluctant smile.

“You’re going to have a hard time in the morning,” she says, and Bree only shrugs.

“I wanted to say goodnight,” she says, blue eyes wide and guileless, so like Jamie, and so unlike him in that moment that Claire chuckles.

“Well, goodnight, then,” she says, and Bree sits up so that she can give her a hug. “I’m sending your father in to wake you tomorrow, though,” she says, and grins at the faint groan as she closes the door.

  
*

  
Jamie looks up when she walks into their room. He’s dressed for bed but is still working, his tablet balanced on his lap and blueprints scattered all over the bed. He’s tired too, deep creases in the lines of his face, but he smiles as she comes closer.

“Hard day,” she says, only half-questioning, and he grunts in agreement.

“Dougal’s still trying his best to take the University project,” he says. “He wants to fill that lovely space with cubicles and hallways.”

He sounds offended on behalf of the building, and he narrows his eyes when she snickers.

“It’s verra serious business, Sassenach,” he says. “We canna have the Edinburgh skyline ruined by his notions of what a building ought to look like.”

“Oh, for sure,” she says, and he tugs on her arm.

“Come and sit with me,” he says, and she pulls free.

“Shower, first.” The work of the day is still on her, like a thin layer of slime, and she doesn’t want to bring that to their bed. She stays in the shower until her skin is pink and when she’s ready for bed she feels enough like herself that she crawls between his thighs without any further prompting. She squirms around until her back is to his front and he can comfortably rest his chin on her shoulder. He stays still mostly, allowing her to move them around until they are settled, and he slings his heavy arm across her waist. He buries his face in her hair, breathing in deep.

“Tell me about your day,” she says.

“Where should I start?”

“From the beginning,” she replies, and he snorts.

He balances the tablet on her lap and pulls out the schematics, taking her through the design he wants for the university’s new administrative block. He pulls up blueprints and photos of the site and tells her about the client’s eccentric bow ties, about his uncle who may or may not be trying to get him fired.

“And poor Geordie was ordered not to tell me that the meeting had been moved,” he continues, his Scottish burr rumbling through her chest, soothing as a lullaby. “If i hadna bumped into Rupert on my way to lunch they would - are ye awake?”

“Yes,” she mumbles. “I’m sorry.”

“Dinna fash,” he says. “Ye looked worn when ye came in. Shall I lay ye down?”

“No,” she says, clutching his arm as if he will suddenly fling her away from him, and he chuckles.

“Take yer wee nails away from my arm, Sassenach,” he says. “Ye’re like a little kitten.”

Sleep comes for her quickly, and she can feel it pulling her under as Jamie somehow contrives to balance everything so that he has a hand free to use his tablet while keeping an arm around her.

“I’m being terrible company,” she mumbles, eyes half open.

“Ye’re all right,” he says, attention half on whatever he’s looking at, and he manages to bring a hand under her to give her backside a squeeze. When it comes to gaining access to her arse Jamie has always exhibited an almost unearthly dexterity. “Besides,” he adds, not giving up his handful, “this makes up for any conversational deficiencies in yer person.”

“Lout,” she says, and she allows sleep to take her under.

  
*

  
Her schedule stays punishing through the next week, as people seem to take the slow start to spring as an excuse to break as many bones as possible in ways that would be more interesting if there weren’t so many at once. Jamie is busy too, and sometimes it feels more like they are passing a baton. They spend their date night passed out on the couch, Netflix blaring something or the other, and they eat the slightly burned chicken that Claire had optimistically placed in the oven when she got home.

The little boy - Thomas, heals slowly, his eyes dull with pain and confusion every time he wakes. His father still hasn’t been located, and his mother’s side of the family have mostly passed away. Claire tries to sit with him when she can, especially when he develops a fever that is resistant to broad spectrum antibiotics. He had enough open fractures that this isn’t entirely surprising, but it’s still worrying.

“Thomas,” she says, and his eyes fix on her.

“‘M’ead,” he says miserably. It’s the thing he says most often, and no one has been able to puzzle out what it means.

“Alright, darling,” she says, and holds onto his hand as Mary Hawkins draws blood from the crook of his arm.

“Make sure you tell the techs how sick he is,” she says. “See if they can get the results back by Friday.” Hawkins nods solemnly.

“I will,” she says.

 

*

  
In keeping with this March’s theme of awfulness, she wakes up on Thursday feeling like someone parked their truck on her sleeping body, but twenty years of habit have her on her feet while her eyes are still struggling to open.

It feels like the flu - her joints are sore, and she’s shivering slightly, but even a few hours of doing paperwork will do wonders for her workload.

Jamie eyes her worriedly as she staggers around, looking for clean clothes to wear. She adds laundry to the list of things to get done.

“Maybe ye should take the day,” he suggests, but she’s already shaking her head before he has finishes speaking.

“I’ll have an easy day,” she promises. “Home by five.”

 

  
*

 

She _is_ home by five, and she crawls straight up to bed, hoping to fit in a nap and wake in time to put the children to bed, but when she opens her eyes she knows that it is late without even having to look at the alarm. Jamie appears a few minutes later as if called by some silent signal, and he forces half a bowl of soup into her before retreating to let her rest.

Her dreams are jumbled and frightening. Her anatomy professor chases her through the halls of the hospital, testing her on the names of all the muscles of the hands and feet, swatting at her head with a cricket bat when she misses one.

_My head_ , she says, when he lands a particularly hard hit to the aforementioned part, and she finally understands what her subconscious is trying to tell her as she bolts upright in bed.

M’ead - Thomas’ head hurt. And he had a fever. He was hospitalised for complex fractures, including a cracked vertebra - hospital staff wouldn’t have paid much heed to neck or muscle stiffness. Even confusion would be explained by the sedation.

“Meningitis,” she says, loud enough that Jamie stirs. “Bloody fucking hell.” She turns her head to look for her phone and cries out as the muscles in her neck spasm and lock.

“ _Ifrinn_ ,” Jamie says, mumbly, flicking the bedside light on. She cringes from the light and he sits up, putting a hand on her back to brace her.

“Ye’re worse, then?” he sounds calm, but she can hear the undercurrent of tension in his voice, humming like a livewire. His hand dips under her shirt, pressing against the small of her back. “Christ, ye’re burning.”

“Meningitis,” she says again, fighting the almost overwhelming urge to lie back. She cracks an eye open to see the blood drain from his face, his other hand pressing against her stomach, keeping her upright. “Tell Mary Hawkins that Thomas Ayers in 104B will need a lumbar puncture. We both will.”

“Claire,” he says, hoarse.

“Promise me,” she says. She really does feel quite sick.

“Aye,” he says, fingers trembling against her back and stomach. It’s too much for her fever-sensitive skin, and she curls on her herself, carefully resting her head on her drawn-up knees.

“That’s fine, then,” she says, hearing her voice from a great distance, and she closes her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Time passes in flashes. She feels suspended underwater, only surfacing for moments at a time.

Jamie wraps a blanket around her and pulls her out of bed, scrambling to scoop her up as her legs buckle. He puts her down and then there is a female voice nearby, and then he scoops her up again, and then there is searing cold against her skin and she retches, trying to turn her head but her neck refuses to cooperate, and then they are moving, the car accelerating under her and Jamie’s hand keeping her steady.

She hears him bellow as her pulls her from the car. There is flashing blue and red light behind her lids. She’s put down on something soft and she tries, but her eyes won’t open. There’s a pain in the crook of her elbow, coldness on her chest, gentle hands on her neck. The smell of latex gloves, sharper and much more unpleasant than she remembers.

There are people talking around her but half of the words skate by before she can catch them. Jamie comes through clearest, his voice close by her head. She opens her eyes to see him and shuts them immediately, hissing in pain.

“Hush, _a nighean_ ,” he murmurs, and gently sets a large palm over her eyelids.

She can feel herself being pulled under again. It’s gentle, the promised peace seductive. She very much wants to leave this place that hurts so much.

“Ye can treat her, aye?” Jamie still sounds calm, but she can smell the fear-sweat overlaid with the acrid vomit that she had left on his shirt.

“Ye did right to bring her in so fast,” a voice she identifies as Geillis says. “She said meningitis?”

“Aye,” Jamie confirms. “And she asked that you check 104B as well.”

Her body relaxes when she hears him passing on the message, releasing a tension that she didn’t even know she carried, and the pull to unconsciousness changes from a gentle tug to an unyielding band across her chest, dragging her away. 

_I love you_ , she says, or tries to say, and then she is gone.  


*  


Her head hurts, is the first thing she notices. Her head hurts, and there is an itch on her nose, and her feet are cold. Those three facts seem to be equally important, and upon reflection - an action that causes a merciless throb in her head - she decides that the itch on her nose is the most pressing issue.

Opening her eyes takes what feels like an hour, but she manages. She is greeted by the sight of Jenny Murray, frozen in a visitor’s chair, hands clutching knitting needles and wool.

They both freeze, studying the other. Claire notices Jenny’s crumpled clothes and the bags under her eyes, but Jenny’s eyes don’t move from her face.

“ _A Dhia_ ,” Jenny says eventually, quietly. “Ye’re awake.”

She tries to speak, but her throat closes and the only sound that comes out is an unintelligible croak. She tries again, but Jenny rushes forward to press her hands against her shoulders, knitting dumped unceremoniously on the floor.

“Don’t speak,” Jenny warns. “Ye’ve had a tube in yer throat for five days. We werena expecting ye to wake today. Jamie’s with the bairns,” she adds. “He was to be back in a few hours, but I’ll call him now.” Jenny is still leaning over her, and the itch on her nose has crossed from irritating to abominable. She can’t quite remember how to use her hands and so glances down as Jenny moves back pressing the nurse call button above her bed. She stiffens in shock.

Her hands are lying still and clawlike over her stomach. She has tubes and wires flowing from her. She knows what they’re all called, has placed them herself hundreds of times, but there is something uniquely shocking about seeing them come from her.

Her head throbs with a vengeance, and she allows her eyes to close. Her hand comes up to rub at her nose, dislodging the nasal cannula in the process, and she flinches as gentle hands reposition them. She reaches for her voice again, forces air through her irritated throat until she thinks she’ll be able to speak clearly.

“How long?” she rasps.  


*

Jenny tells her the broad strokes then leaves her with the nurses to fill in more details when she goes to call Jamie.

It was meningitis, the bacterial kind, which was unlucky. They had put her in a coma while the scrambled to stop the bacteria and mitigate the damage it was leaving in its wake. It had been touch and go, Nurse Radley tells her, stroking her hand as she listens to her breathing, but they had managed to halt and mostly reverse the damage a few days ago.

A few days being four days, exactly. She has been in the hospital for nine days, critical for five.

“Very good,” Nurse Radley says. She helps Claire sip at water and she cooperates, the whole situation feeling more like a dream than anything that could be happening to her. She will wake up soon, she thinks. Maybe she fell asleep in front of the TV. She’ll wake up and stagger to bed and this reality where she has tubes sprouting from her like she’s some kind of science experiment, where her hands lay like claws on the bedspread, will be gone as soon as she opens her eyes.

God, she’s exhausted. Maybe if she closes her eyes -

The door opens suddenly, and Jamie steps in, eyes wild, hair sticking up in all directions. He sweeps the rooms once and reaches for her, skating over her shoulders, skimming over her arms, settling over her hands, covering them. 

“It’s true, then,” he says, eyes boring into hers, and the reality of this hits her like a truck. Her eyes burn. Her head still hurts. “Ye woke up,” he says, and he lets go of her with one hand, the other running over her like he is assuring himself that she really is there.

“Yes,” she says, both acknowledgement and acceptance. “I’m here,” she says, and he leans forward, slowly, until their foreheads touch.

“Thank ye, Lord,” he says, and his hand finally settles over her heart.

 

*

 

Jamie sleeps on the chair that Jenny had been sitting in, his hand tangled in hers and his head next to her thigh. He falls asleep instantly and deeply, despite the uncomfortable position, and she manages to get her uncooperative right hand up to rest in his hair. It’s slow and clumsy, and the light in her room is poor, but she thinks that some of the desperate lines in her face ease at his touch.  


*

Dr. Hill is a Senior Internist that she’s seen in Christmas parties and in the staff room but she doubts they’ve exchanged more than ten words this year. It’s surreal to have him talking to her now from her hospital bed, Jamie sitting next to her, listening attentively. More attentively than her, which is probably a bad thing.

“...Claire?” Gentle pressure on her hand brings her back to the conversation. She’s missed something important, she can tell from their expressions, but there’s nothing for it but to ask him to repeat himself.

“Minimal organ damage,” Dr Hill repeats, frowning slightly, which increases his resemblance to basset hound from incidental to overwhelming. She clamps her lips together to stop a laugh from escaping, and he eyes her warily before continuing.

“You’ll have to stay a while longer, Dr Fraser,” he says. “You’re doing well, but we want to make sure you stay that way. And we’ll want to see how your extremities respond after the swelling has gone down.” 

She had been lucky - the disease hadn’t done permanent damage to her blood vessels and internal organs, as far as they could tell, but the inflammation around her nerves has left her hands and feet weak and uncoordinated. It may reverse, or not, and if it doesn’t there isn’t much that they’ll be able to do about that. 

She pushes that thought away firmly and concentrates on Dr Hill instead, who is giving the sort of look that is usually followed by a kindly nurse with very strong drugs.

“I’m all right,’ she says. Jamie squeezes her hand warningly.

“I’ll check on you this evening,” he says. “Someone from the Neurology department will be with me.”

“Thank you,” she says, and he leaves.

The giddiness has passed as quickly as it came, and she feels strangely empty, as if something vital has been poured out of her.

“How did the children take the tests today?” They’ve been blood tested twice since she’s been in the hospital, Jamie had told her, their temperatures taken every day. She thinks of the week before she got sick, when she was at her most infectious. She had hugged them and kissed them every day, had them crawl into her lap and made them food. She could have killed them. Her stomach swoops and she presses her eyes shut.

“The bairns were fine,” Jamie says. “Very brave.”

“I want to see them,” she says.

“Ye can talk to them tomorrow,” Jamie promises. He looks terrible, more tired than she feels, and she does her best to scoot back.

“Get up here,” she says, flopping over to the bed rail and nodding in thanks when he steadies her.

“I canna,” he says. “You need your rest.”

“I’ll rest better with you,” she says, and allows some of her exhaustion to show on her face, which is not exactly playing fair, but it’s difficult to feel too guilty when Jamie gingerly sits on the edge of the bed, a careful arm around her shoulders.

“I can sit here until ye sleep,” he says, and she nods. She leans her head into his shoulder and breathes in deep, inhaling the smell of home - the detergent they use, faint hints of the children’s shampoo, his own cologne. 

“I don’t want to sleep,” she says. She wants to stay here, like this, her body’s weakness bolstered by the man who has sheltered her in every way that matters since they had first met. “I want to stay with you.”

“I would like that,” Jamie says. “I ken it’s selfish, but if ye could stay awake for a little while… I havena seen your eyes for nine days,” he says. “I wore my rosary to pieces.” He makes a sound that she thinks is supposed to be a laugh.

She tries to reach for him, and her hand responds at half strength, weak and wavering. She tries to form a fist and only her thumb and index finger respond. Cold fear claws at her chest, despite her best efforts to shove it into the back of the brain.

“Jamie,” she says, and he reaches for her hand. Holds it carefully in his one free one, and brings it to his lips. She watches as he kisses each finger, his lips soft and dry against her hand.

“You’ll no be alone,” he promises. “Whatever happens. I’ll be here.”

“I know,” she says, and allows the tears to spill from her eyes.  
  


*

 

She sleeps a lot, which is expected, but it frustrates her anyway. Her body needs to heal, everyone tells her, as if that is not something that she says to patients dozens of times a week.

She has an intermittent fever that leaves her weak and nauseous, and they keep the children away from her because she is likely still infectious. She understands, but it makes her cry, which only sets her head pounding.

Three days of this and she’s at breaking point. She’s been set free from the accoutrements of intensive care - the catheter is out, the heart monitors have been removed, and the nasal cannula is gone. Ironically, the removal of her tethers to her bed makes her confinement worse, as if it has highlighted exactly how weak her body is. 

“Doctors make the worst patients,” Geillis tells her, when she drops in on her lunch break. “Clearly the saying has some truth to it. More than some,” she adds, as Claire glowers. “Ye’re healing, Claire,” she says. “This too shall pass.”

“Enough with the sayings,” Claire says, and Geillis laughs. Cackles, really.

After a particularly nasty bout with nausea that leaves her with shaking and irritable and in a foul mood, she decides that the best thing for her mood will be to get some fresh air. Not even that fresh, she tells herself. She’ll settle for hallway air.

Her hands and feet have gotten much better in just three days. She can close both hands in a fist and wiggle her toes. She tries it now, wincing at the stretch of disused muscle.

There’s a wheelchair in the corner of the room. She’s reasonably sure that she’ll be able to maneouvre her way out of the room while she is on it. There’s no time like the present, she thinks, and pushes her blankets out of the way so she can swing her feet to the floor. She shivers at the cool touch of the linoleum on her bare feet, and takes a breath. Her heart is beating fast, but steady, and she’s only a little out of breath. 

Her knees buckle when she leans forward, allowing the balls of her feet to take some of her weight, and she rocks back. She could crawl to the wheelchair, maybe, but it would be difficult to get into it when she reaches it. She reaches for her IV stand instead, using her newly rediscovered grip strength to lever herself upright. There is a scary moment where vertigo overwhelms her but a minute with her eyes closed and she feels ready to go.

A six foot distance would normally be about five steps away, but she can only take slow, shuffling steps. Her feet have started to go numb, like the worst case of pins and needles she’s ever had. Sensation in her hands comes and goes in waves, and she wraps her other hand around the IV pole for extra security.

She has taken what feels like four hundred small steps and she’s moved around two feet. Sweat breaks out on her temples, but she keeps moving forward on feet that feel like they’ve been replaced with giant marshmallows.

Three hundred tiny steps to go, she judges, and takes a firmer grip on the IV pole. Her palms are sweating, but she’s almost there.

And then she’s made it, her hand is on the armrest of the wheelchair, and it feels so reassuringly sturdy that her knees shake in relief.

Afterwards, she’s never really sure what happened. Maybe the wheelchair moved, or her grip on the pole slipped, or her traitorous legs went out from under her, but there is a swirl of colour, a loud thump, and the next thing she knows she is staring at the same ceiling she has been looking at for four days.

The view hasn’t improved by the slight change in location, and she allows her eyes to slip closed while she plans her next move. The cool of the floor does feel nice on her skin, she decides blearily.

“Claire? What are ye _doin’?_ ” The familiar voice cuts through her haze and she struggles to raise her head up.

“Oh. Hello, Jenny.” Familiar blue eyes - set in a too-feminine face, but familiar enough that she smiles reflexively - appear close to her face.

“I needed to stretch my legs.” Jenny attempts to lever her up - for such a small woman, she’s surprisingly strong- and she manages to get Claire leaning against the wall with no help from Claire herself.

“Ye’re bein’ a fool.” Jenny’s accent, like Jamie’s, gets thicker when she’s upset.

“I need fresh air,” Claire sighs.

“Stop tryin’ to finish the job the illness started,” Jenny says. “Ye could have hit ye’re heid! Then where would we be?”

“I didn’t though,” Claire says, defensive in the face of the scolding. “I’m perfectly fine. Just a little bit tired.” Jenny snorts.

“Perfectly fine,” Jenny says, in an eerily accurate and slightly cruel imitation of Claire herself. “If ye call bein found on the floor, arse hangin’ out of yer hospital gown ‘perfectly fine’ then we need to call the Neurologist back tae send ye for another scan.” Her eyes are gentle, though, mouth set in a worried frown as she props Claire up a little higher. “Do ye need the nurse?”

“No,” she says, head drooping down. It’s possible that this was not one of her brighter ideas. She casts a longing look at her wheelchair and sighs. “I’m just tired. Will you help me back to bed?”

They are about halfway there, Jenny’s arm clamped around her waist, swearing low-voiced in Gaelic whenever Claire’s feet slip out from under her, when there is a rush of air and she is swept up into the air. She lets out a strangled _eep_ as the world tilts sideways, but her head rests comfortably in the crook of a very familiar shoulder.

“Er. Hello,” she says to Jamie’s chin. He glances down to look at her and she shrinks back. He looks forbidding, especially from her disadvantaged angle. He sets her down on the bed as if she is made of crystal and carefully covers her with her blanket.

“How are ye,” he says, tone neutral. She exchanges a glance with Jenny who trailed behind them, minding the IV pole, but she only shrugs helplessly.

“I feel fine,” she says cautiously, and he nods. 

“I’ll see ye later, then,” he says, and walks out.

 

*

 

He doesn’t come back until late. She’s had three naps, struggled through some bland soup and porridge, flexed her toes until her feet cramped and stared at the tree outside her window until she can recount every leaf from memory by the time he appears at the door. He’s big enough that he blocks out almost all the light from the hall beyond, and she fights down a shiver at his silhouette.

She doesn’t say anything as he comes closer and flicks on the small light next to her bed. She can see the muscle at his temple ticking in the way that it does when he is trying to hold back some great emotion.

“Yer heart stopped about an hour after we got to the hospital,” he says finally. “They let me stand in the corner while they tried to restart it, and I looked at my watch to see how long yer cells were goin’ wi’out oxygen. It was one minute and thirty-seven seconds. Then yer kidneys began to fail. Yer heart stopped again, after they sedated ye. It took two minutes exactly.”

She’s still, frozen, as he speaks.

“I had a screamin’ fight wi’ Jenny because she wanted to bring in the priest to give ye last rites. I wouldna let her _._ When she called to tell me that ye’d woken, I thought she was calling to say ye were deid.” He stops at that, pulling up a chair so that he can sit, so that his face is level with hers.

Looking into his eyes sends a strike to her heart. He looks haunted, shaken, staring into another version of their lives where Claire is gone, and he is alone.

“I know ye, Claire,” he says. “I know how frustrated ye must be, how weak ye must feel. I know ye are a doctor, and ye know more about diseases and such than me. But, I will ask ye,” and he does touch her, finally, hands enveloping hers, big and warm and trembling slightly. “For the sake of the love ye bear me,” he says. “Take care for yerself.”

She feels tears to match his rise in her eyes, but she blinks them away.

“I will,” she says. “I promise.”

 

*  


They are playing Go Fish - Brianna’s favourite card game, and Jamie is winning.

“Go Fish,” he says, and he waits patiently as she slides a new card off the pile. It feels like trying to thread a needle with mittens glued to her hands, but today she is feeling very sanguine about the general state of her body, and she carefully nudges the card off the table and onto her lap, tilted at a precarious angle but still viewable. 

“Oh, I have four,” she says, and slowly extracts her four kings. The slick surface of the cards makes them doubly difficult to grip, but she’s in no hurry.

She looks up to see Jamie grinning. “What?” she says. Her vanity has died a hard death in her time at the hospital, but there is something particularly vexing about being grinned at in her current state by a husband who happens to be wearing his best suit, hair artfully tousled after a morning at work.

“Ah, I was just remembering our first date,” he says. “Yer hair looked verra similar to now.” Her hair is loose around her shoulders, partly pulled back out of her face. 

“I thought we agreed not to count that,” she says, smile stretching across her face.

“That was yer notion, Sassenach, no’ mine. Give me yer sevens.” She is shuffling through her pile, hunting with all of the speed of a drugged sloth, when he continues. “It was one of the most entertaining evenings of my life, up to that point.” She slides two sevens across the table to him, fingers twingeing from the effort.

“I find that hard to believe,” she says. “Jenny told me all about your drunken Skype calls from France, remember.” His ears go slightly pink, and he clears his throat.

“Even so,” he says. “Havin’ ye appear like that, hair standin’ on end… It isna something I’m going to forget anytime soon.”

She had been late to their first date, ambivalent about going on a date so soon after she had broken up with Frank. It had been one thing to kiss the handsome stranger that she had met during a hospital fundraiser in a dark hallway, and another thing completely to date him. She had left home too late and it had started raining, and by the time she had dashed across the parking lot she was soaked almost all the way through.

They had left the restaurant after Claire had shivered her way through the appetisers and had gone to an old bar with an actual fireplace and leather seats.

“That bar looked like a Lord’s study,” she says. “Give me your twos.” He slides over one card, and she scowls.

“Dinna look at me like that,” he says peaceably. “Ye always have bad luck with cards.”

Things had gone much better once she had some whisky in her. They had stayed there until the bar had closed, drinking more excellent whisky and eating mediocre sandwiches, and then-

“Then, Sassenach, ye more than made up for yer lateness.” He grins. “In fact, the next morning, I prayed that ye would never be on time fer any of our dates again. Aces,” he adds.

“Ye seem very sure that there were going to be more dates,” she says, starting her slow shuffle from the beginning. A card slips from her hands and floats to the ground, and Jamie hops off the bed to retrieve it.

“Weel,” he says. “Ye left little scratches all over my back. And I spent the rest of the day with my ears ringing from all the wee noises ye made right into them.” His grin turns lewd as she blushes, and he puts her dropped card back in her pile.

“I like when ye go all red,” he says. “It suits ye.” Her traitorous cheeks only turn pinker, as if they have forgotten that she is a thirty-nine year old mother of two, and not a shy schoolgirl. He leans closer, cards forgotten.

“Yer cheeks were just as soft,” he says, bussing his mouth across the apple of her cheek before kissing it gently. “And warm. And yer hair curled and twisted about when I ran my hand through it.” He touches an escaped curl by her ear, winding it around his finger, and leans over slowly to kiss her other cheek. She closes her eyes. He kisses her again, just below, and again, and again in a neat line that has her breathing shallowly, fingers grasping clumsily for his shirt, twisting in when they find purchase.

His hands come up to cup her neck, the pads of his fingers cradling her skull, and he kisses along her jaw. He’s moving slowly, undemandingly, touching her just to touch her, but she is trembling, eyes still closed.

_Blood of my blood_ , she thinks, and she imagines she can hear his heart beating heavy and slow, like it does after sex.

They both jump when the door opens and Geillis comes in, smiling slyly at them both.

“ _Ciamar a tha thu, a ruaidh_?” she asks. “Ye’re looking well.”

“Dr Duncan,” Jamie says, nodding his head and pulling back. He’s never really liked her, and he doesn’t move from his spot as she strides in. 

“I’m not stopping for long,” she says. She turns to Claire and gives her a real smile. “I wanted to tell ye that 104B is better. An aunt is comin’ to be with him. Lives in Spain, apparently. Lucky fer her,” she says, glancing at the heavy rain outside. “I thought ye’d want to know.”

 Mary has in fact been giving her periodic updates on Thomas, but she’s touched that Geillis has come to tell her.

“Thank you,” she says, and Geillis gives her another smile before slipping out of the door.

“That’s good news, aye?” Jamie says.

“More than good,” she says.  


*

 

She is officially cleared as non-infectious, and Jamie is bringing the children to see her.

She’s been in the hospital for four weeks, the longest she has ever spent away from them, and she finds herself awake before the sun rises. Jenny has gone back to Lallybroch and Jamie is home with the children, and so she does the hand exercises that the physiotherapist had taught her and listens to ebooks until she falls asleep from sheer frustration.

Nurse Radley helps her clean up and pulls her hair into a high bun, hands gentle and soothing. They know she is sick, they’ve spoken on FaceTime and over the phone, but they are young. All they know is that something terrible happened in the middle of the night and they haven’t seen their mother since.

They might be angry, or withdrawn, or scared. Jamie keeps telling her that they’re fine, but he would say that, anyway. 

“They’ll be glad to see ye,” Nurse Radley says. “Ye’ll see.”

A very unscientific statement; no evidence to support it at all. But comforting, for all that.

 

*

 

Brianna stands by the door, straight-backed even in her uncertainty and William is in Jamie’s arms, hands locked tight around his neck but peering at Claire, eyes bright with curiosity.

“Hello, babies,” she says, and holds out her arms. Brianna walks forward, stopping at the edge of the bed.

“Hi, Mama,” she says quietly. She’s still in her school uniform, looking unusually neat for the end of the day. Jamie carefully deposits William on her other side, and he burrows in immediately, his curls brushing her chin. She can feel his heart going rabbit-fast against the sides of her ribs and she gets an arm around him. 

“Bree,” she says. “William.” Brianna’s chin is wobbling, and Claire manages to lean to the side enough to pull her closer. Bree melts into her side, her sob muffled by Claire’s shoulder, and she scrambles up onto the bed, all sharp knees and elbows, her bright hair in a smooth cascade down her back.

“Don’t cry, Bree.” William, generally more prone to tears, is dry-eyed, and he reaches an arm out to pat Bree’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”

The bed dips as Jamie sits on the end, his eyes suspiciously shiny. He rubs his hand up and down her calf, soothing.

“Your brother’s right,” she says, and Bree’s face pokes out, red and streaked with tears.

“I missed you,” she says, voice steady despite her tears.

“Me too!” William pipes up. “We missed you a _lot_.”

“Me too,” she says, and takes a steadying breath. They only have a few hours together before the children will have to leave, and she wants to spend as little time crying as possible. “Tell me what you did at school today.”

 

*  


The children stay until dark, the nurses having turned a blind eye to give them a little extra time, but they have school the next day. It takes an age to get them sorted out and ready to leave, for Jamie to locate the various shoes, socks, and other paraphernalia that the children seem to have scattered to every corner of the room.

The children barely help, getting their arms tangled up in their sweaters and struggling with their laces, but Jamie eventually gets them sorted.

“Give yer Mam a kiss goodbye,” he says, and the children press kisses to her cheeks, Bree soft and sweet, William childish and sloppy.

“We’ll come and see you again, Mama,” Bree promises, and Claire nods, her heart full.

“I can’t wait,” she says. William sits in the corner, digging through his schoolbag.

“It’s time to go,” Jamie says, but he only shakes his head, curly hair flopping. Jamie sighs, but William lets out a shout of triumph and pulls something out of his bag.

It’s her favourite scarf, wadded up into a tight ball, last seen under William’s pillow. He walks back to Claire’s bed and spreads it out carefully on to her lap.

“Keep this, Mama,” he says. “It will make you feel better.” She touches the soft material, still warm and thick after all this time, and looks up into his expectant face.

“Thank you,” she says, voice cracking only a little, and then they are gone, and the room is quiet, but she does not feel alone.


	3. Chapter 3

She leaves hospital on an uncommonly sunny day. Jamie, superstitious despite himself, declares it a good sign and waves cheerily at the hospital staff as a nurse wheels her out.

“Wait just a moment,” he says, when they are outside, and goes to get the car. The nurse squeezes her hand.

“We dinna want to see ye here for good long while, Dr Fraser,” he says. “Enjoy yer rest.”

“I’ll do my best,” she says, as Jamie’s lovingly cared for vintage car rolls up. He jumps out to help her out of the wheelchair, getting a hand underneath her elbow and guiding her the two steps to the car with solicitous care. He reaches across her to buckle her seatbelt and then they are gone, grinning as if they have made some great escape.

  
*

  
“Jamie.” He fiddles with the radio, keeping a sharp eye on the road. “Jamie.”

“Yes?”

“Jamie, we are going to spend the rest of our lives in this car if you don’t speed up.” A slight exaggeration, but Jamie is normally a very fast driver. Creeping along like this is maddening, and her thigh bounces up and down with impatience.

“Home’s not goin’ anywhere, Sassenach.” He’s annoyingly relaxed, whistling tunelessly along to the radio and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He grins. “Yer free from that room ye hated, ye ken,” he says. “And now yer back to our house with our noisy weans and drippy shower.”

“The food will be better, though,” she says, as the car crawls forward.

“No’ by much,” he says. “Bree and William wanted to make ye a welcome back meal, so we’re all havin’ sandwiches and fish fingers for dinner.”

“Lovely,” she says.

“I thought I’d warn ye, so ye don’t hope for a gourmet meal.”

“I’d be happy with mud out of the garden as long as I’m at home,” she says, and he laughs.

  
*

 

Her home feels exactly the same and very different all at once. Her eyes zero in on the splashes of colour at about knee height that had been caused by a four-year old Brianna and a new paint set, and her hand reaches out automatically to brace herself on the wall as Jamie tugs her coat off.

She’s still a little weak, but her last tests had shown that she has gained back almost all of the function in her hands and feet, and the rest would most likely be gained back with physiotherapy and time. Jamie had beamed proudly at the news, squeezing her shoulder as if that outcome a result of anything other than a staggering amount of luck.

Almost all. Good enough for most professions, not nearly enough for a surgeon. Not by a long shot.

“She’s home!” Her son’s voice, squeaky with excitement, reverberates through the house. Jamie takes her hand.

“Ye’re home,” he says, smiling, face lit up with joy, and she takes a deep breath.

“Yes,” she says.

  
*

  
Jamie has arranged to work from home for the next week, just in case. He sets himself up in the study downstairs, and she turns their bedroom into a nest, piling it with blankets and snacks and books, only leaving for her doctors’ appointments and physiotherapy sessions.

Then Jamie goes back to work, and she is left alone with strict instructions to call if she needs _anything_ , Jamie had said, summoning his deepest Scottish burr for the occasion. She had nodded obediently, but she is tired of fuss. Tired of people asking if she is alright, tired of being touched and poked and prodded, tired of being cosseted.

She takes walks in the mornings. She goes to the local park and looks at the blooming flowers, and runs through the mnemonics that she had used in medical school, as if reinforcing her basic medical knowledge will somehow heal her body faster.

She’s always home for the children, which is an experience none of them have had before. They love it, following her from room to room like little ducklings, chattering for her attention. They play endless rainy day games, spend hours in the back garden kicking their soccer ball as she watches. Brianna, ever the long-suffering older sibling, allows William to get the occasional goal past her. She flicks her eyes to Claire to see if she’s watching, a very grownup amusement on her face at the sight of her little brother hooting and cheering, shirt over his head at his victory.

Jamie always comes home before dinnertime, always slightly rumpled, but cheery. He throws the children in the air and holds Claire tight by the waist as he kisses her. They eat together and sometimes read a chapter of a book aloud - Jamie and Bree like Harry Potter, Claire leans towards the classic children’s stories, and William is unwavering in his love for where the wild things are.

It’s all perfect, almost.

  
*

  
Her garden is starting to explode in bursts of colour, flowering plants waking up from their long sleep. She kneels in the soft mud, weeding out the opportunists that are taking the lovely spring weather as an excuse to encroach on her garden. She stares at her hands, pale and thin-fingered as always, gently calloused, nails neat and bare, so very capable for almost everything she wants from them. She runs a finger down a pale green stem, not looking up as a heavy hand lands on her shoulder.

Jamie comes home for lunch a few times a week. He affects casualness when he does, and she lets him. He sits down beside her on the grass.

“You’ll have to change before you go back to work,” she says, and he shrugs.

“Good thing I’m at home then,” he says, and tips his head up so that he can feel the sun on his face. He looks relaxed, lines smoothed for the moment, wide mouth ticked up in a smile. The gentle waves of his hair catch and hold the light, glowing a strawberry blond near the top and subsiding to a dark red over his ears. He looks like a great cat sunning himself, and she reaches out to touch his cheek. His eyes blink open.

“What is it.”

“Nothing,” she says. “I just love you.”

He gets shy sometimes when she surprises him, and she feels her heart lighten as the tips of his ears pinken.

“That’s good to know,” he says. “Seeing as I love ye as well.”

“How much?” she leans sideways so that she’s tucked into his shoulder, and he shifts to accommodate her.

“How do I love thee,” he says, and pauses dramatically, his eyes roaming her face. “Let me see. I love thee more than the last drops of whiskey in a verra small bottle. I love thee as the weary husband loves the sight of his sleeping children, or his wife’s warm arse on a cold night. I love thee-”

“Idiot,” she says, laughing despite herself. “What kind of poetry do they teach in Inverness schools?”

“Only the best,” he says. “I am a verra learned man, Sassenach.” His arm comes around her, reassuring, solid, and she sags into him, allowing him to take more of her weight.

They are silent for a minute, enjoying the peace, and she shifts.

“I think,” she starts, and clears her throat. “The hospital have offered me a consulting position. And I’m considering maybe taking a part-time teaching position. Just for now.”

Physiotherapy is an exceedingly painful and uncomfortable experience. Even remembering her last session sends small zaps of pain down the tendons of her wrists and feet. She had cried more than once, as much in frustration as pain, but it is doing its job. Her hands are her own again, with the exception of the occasional tremor that will

_(should)_

disappear in time.

In the meantime, she is a healer. That’s what she’s meant to be, and she will find a way, even if it is indirectly.

“That sounds like a fine idea,” he says, the tremble in his voice so slight that only someone who knows him well would hear it. She puts her hand on his cheek again, and kisses him, and he kisses her back, and the sun keeps on shining, and the birds are singing, and the world keeps going.

  
*

  
She gasps into her pillow, muscles trembling. She can feel her heartbeat in the tips of her fingers, her lips, and she whimpers as Jamie brushes a careful kiss against them.

“Good, then?” he rumbles, a note of definite satisfaction in his voice. She doesn’t answer immediately, only allows her eyes to open as her body settles.

“You need me to tell you?” she shifts, deliberately, pushing his hand against her where it is still trapped between her thighs, and his eyes darken. His fingers move instinctively, gliding easily against the slick flesh, and she whimpers.

“Too much?” he says, slowing down, and she shakes her head even as his slight movements make her head spin. She nudges them over to their sides, slinging a leg over his waist and gasping as he takes the opportunity to cup her gently.

“Ye’re verra soft, Claire,” he says, kissing her briefly. “Ye feel like velvet.”

It’s been twelve years, and he still touches her as if she’s a revelation, a gift he has never seen before. She enjoys it for a moment before she unwinds an arm from around his neck and slides it down his chest, stopping briefly to rub a thumb over his nipple. He sighs, and she moves further down, tracing the muscles of his hard stomach, skimming her fingers over the top of his thigh. He shivers and shifts so that his arm stops her from moving any closer, and she stills.

“Is something wrong?” She feels a little twist of worry, and tries to ignore it as Jamie closes his eyes.

“Nah,” he says, but he doesn’t move. “I want to focus on ye, that’s all.”

“You already did that,” she says. “I want to touch you.”

“I’ll do,” he replies, and kisses her thoroughly enough that her muscles turn to jelly. She can feel herself melting into the sheets, eyes heavy, but-

“You’re not going to distract me,” she says, pulling away with an effort. “It’s been too long for that.”

They’ve only been intimate once since she’s been released from hospital, and that had involved Jamie touching her until she had come so hard she had momentarily blacked out. She hadn’t been able to keep her eyes open after that, much to her chagrin the next morning. Now, looking at her husband who has casually manoeuvred himself so that her hands are trapped between their bodies, she wonders how much of that was deliberate.

“Jamie,” she says, “is there a reason you don’t want me to touch you?”

“Ye need yer rest,” he says.

“I’ve had all the rest I need, and more,” she says. “We’re supposed to be getting back to our lives, aren’t we?”

“I’m trying to,” he grumbles. “If ye would stop talking.” He strokes her gently, and she stops her eyes from rolling back in her head with a huge effort of will. There isn’t much space to wiggle back - he’s entangled them so thoroughly that she’s not sure how she would begin to extricate herself - so she leans forward and nips his neck, hard enough to get his attention. He jumps back.

“Ah!” He shoots her a look, blue eyes outraged.

“I told you to stop trying to distract me.”

“Vixen,” he says. It doesn’t sound entirely complimentary, and she glares back.

“I asked you a question.”

His broad shoulders tighten, then curl inward as if some giant is placing great pressure upon them, and his eyes close again, red curls falling over his face.

“I dinna want to hurt ye,” he says quietly. He’s still, hardly breathing, and he looks like a marble statue, large and indomitable but beautiful for all that, heartbreakingly delicate up close.

“You could never,” she says, willing him to open his eyes, and he does, eventually.

“I might,” he says. “There’s nothing so painful as seeing ye hurt, Claire.” She kisses him gently.

“Nothing about you hurts me,” she says, and kisses him again, softly, mouth closed, but he seems to come to a decision, and looses his grip on her. She moves her hand down, but stops.

“If you really don’t want…” she starts, but he shakes his head.

“I always want.” She hesitates, still, and he groans.

“Please,” he says, breath coming hard, and she closes her hand around him, gently.

She has forgotten the power that comes with his, the feeling of his powerful body submitting to her, reacting to her every move. He curses when she moves faster, freezes against her when she swipes her thumb over the tip. It’s intoxicating, and she whimpers in disappointment when he rolls them so he is on top, pinning her beneath him.

“Claire,” he says, panting heavily, “ye must tell me if I hurt ye.”

“You won’t,” she says, but nods when he glares at her. “Yes, I will.”

And then he is in between her legs, pushing her knees wide apart. She can feel her own wetness on her thighs and she arches against him, scrambling to pull him closer. He picks a leg up behind her knee and hitches it up. He stares at her for a moment before placing a reverent kiss on her breast.

They both gasp when he sinks into her. She feels surrounded by him, one elbow down by her ears and the other hand clamped behind her knee, pulling her leg up and keeping her open. It’s overwhelming, she can’t feel anything else but him, and she bites into his shoulder to muffle a scream as he keeps pushing.

“Christ,” he says, burying his face in her hair. “Christ.” She moans in reply, and grinds her hips upwards in encouragement.

He sets a slow pace, but hard enough that her toes curl with every thrust, sensation building and releasing like a wave. Sweat breaks out on her hairline as she gasps for air.

“Jamie,” she says, when the buildup is becoming unbearable. She thrashes against him, looking for more friction, but he’s got her pinned. He grunts into her hair in acknowledgement but keeps up the same pace, hips only stuttering slightly when she tightens around him. “Oh, God, Jamie, I need-”

He adjusts his hips so she gets the friction she needs, and she buries a scream in his shoulder as he keeps going, finally relinquishing his grip on her knee so he can hook both his elbows over her shoulders.

“Look at me,” he says, and she lifts her head. His eyes are burning, searching her face, and she does, holding his gaze until he jerks forward, forehead pressed to hers, harsh breathing filling her ears.

  
*

  
She gets the all-clear for surgery two months later. She just about manages to hold it together until she gets home, and she throws her arms around a startled Jamie, who is doing his best to make dinner with William hanging on to one of his legs. He hugs her back when she sorts out an explanation, nearly knocking over a bowl of olives in the process.

“Mama is happy she gets to cut people up again,” Bree explains importantly to William, who looks at the kitchen knife on the chopping board before shooting Claire a look of deep suspicion.

“As a doctor, darling,” Claire says, grinning.

“Okay,” he says, and he smiles back, sweetly. “We should have ice cream to celebrate,” he says, the picture of innocence.

 

*

 

She is just about to slip off the edge into sleep when Jamie climbs into bed, curling himself around her.

“Sassenach.” He shakes her gently. “Are you awake?”

“Mostly,” she sighs, twining their fingers together. “What is it?”

“Do ye want to take a trip with me? The hotel said they can squeeze us in weekend after next, if ye like.”

“What hotel?”

“The one we booked for March,” he says. “They remembered me and offered to let us rebook.”

“How’d you manage that during the summer?” she asks, and he chuckles.

“A little Gaelic will take ye verra far in the Highlands, lass,” he says. “Dinna let them hear ye speak, or they’ll kick us out directly.”

“Ha,” she says, squirming so she can poke at his side. “With the children?” He shakes his head.

“Jenny said she’ll take them. We should expect the Murray children to pay us an extended visit sometime before the summer is over, though,” he warns.

“It sounds like you have it all planned out,” she says.

“All ye have to do is pack,” he agrees. “So? Shall we go?”

“Yes,” she says. “It sounds like a fine idea.”

  
*

 

  
The little bed and breakfast is in Glencoe Village, a small and incredibly beautiful village in the Highlands. Claire had gone once, before she met Jamie, and she’s looking forward to experiencing it with him.

They both love Edinburgh but he is a Highlands man by nature, and she can see him change slightly as they crunch their way across the gravel parking lot of their bed and breakfast. He walks with a certain swagger in his step that she only ever sees in Lallybroch, and he surveys their surroundings as if they are all of personal interest to him.

The place is quiet despite it being busy season, and soon they are in their room. Jamie, always organised, wants to unpack immediately, but Claire is transfixed by the view of Loch Leven, just about visible from their window. It doesn’t take long for Jamie to give up and soon they are out, following a narrow path through a wood that the owner promises them will eventually lead to the Loch.

She’s happy to meander; the way there is beautiful. The trees are thickly covered in leaves, filtering the sun through in narrow beams of light, and the bushes and plants are in bloom, sprouting sprigs of purple and red and pink and blue in every direction she turns. Her fingers twitch, and she sees Jamie smile from the corner of her eye.

They walk in silence, enjoying the surroundings until they each the edge of the Loch. The water is clear blue and still, reflecting the blue sky above as well as any mirror. She wades through the long grass at the water’s edge until she can dip a hand into the cold water. The reflection of the sky breaks into a thousand microscopic images, rippling madly, until the water settles again, smooth as glass.

She hears Jamie sit down behind her, and she scoots back until she is next to him. He’s quiet, pensive, leaning into the grass as if he has always been there and she closes her eyes, feeling peace settle over her.

“Do ye remember our wedding?” His voice startles her, but she keeps her eyes closed.

“Of course. Why?”

“Well,” he says. “This reminds me of that day.”

“There isn’t a lake at Lallybroch,” she says, and he snorts.

“I ken that. It felt like this, though.”

She knows what he means. The day had been hectic, of course, but there had been a sense of inner peace, too, a rightness that she had only ever felt again on the days she first held her children in her arms. She feels his hand trace her bare arm, gentle as a blade of grass, and touch the scar from the handfasting.

“Remember this?”

“I could never forget,” she says softly.

The wedding had been busy, full of people and cheering and drinking, and they had done the handfasting after, when the guests had left for Inverness or settled down to sleep at Lallybroch itself.

Jamie and Claire and Jenny and Ian had crept to the old barn, stumbling slightly from the effects of whiskey, shivering against the late night cold. The barn was dimly lit by old bulbs high in the ceiling that threw their faces half in shadow.

They had giggled for a while, half swaying with drunkenness and the feeling that they were achieving some great mischief, until Jenny put a stop to it with some well-placed pokes.

“ _A Dhia_ ,” Jamie said, holding onto his ribs, and Ian wisely simmered down.

“Before we freeze to death,” Jenny had said, breath misting in the cold, and Jamie nodded.

“Ready, Claire?”

“Yes,” she said, shivering, and Jamie took hold of her hand, turning it to expose the delicate white of her inner wrist.

“Repeat after me,” he said, and she had done her best, the Gaelic syllables slipping just out of her reach, but no one had laughed. Jamie had followed with the English translation, even though he had told her what it meant several times already.

“... ‘till our life shall be done,” he finished, smiling, and Jenny handed her the disinfectant wipes. She let go of Jamie long enough to wipe across the skin of his arm, and let him do the same for her.

Jenny made a quick, shallow cut across the meat of her forearm with a scalpel that Claire had pilfered from the hospital, and she gasped as the pain lifted the fog of alcohol slightly. Jamie didn’t make a sound as Jenny cut him, quick and businesslike. He pressed his arm over hers, the cuts aligning exactly, so that the blood that dripped to the floor was equally his and hers.

“Ye alright?” he asked, and she nodded as Ian wrapped a length of clean white cloth over their arms, binding them together.

“You?”

“Yes,” he breathed. She was dimly aware that Jenny was speaking a Gaelic prayer that she didn’t know, but the greater part of attention was focused on Jamie, on the feeling of the soft hairs of his arm pressed against hers, of his eyes, almost black in this light, staring as if he was attempting to absorb her with just a look. Her knees wobbled, and he moved forward to steady her.

Most of all she was aware of a feeling deep in her chest: of a key turning in a lock, of a long-held breath released. _There’s the two of us now_ , Jamie had said to her early on, but she hadn’t really understood what he had meant until this moment, carrying out an almost forgotten custom that she had agreed to out of curiosity more than anything else.

“ _Sorcha_ ,” he said, and then the moment was over and Ian was unwrapping their arms, and Jamie had kissed her gently, and Jenny clutched her in a tight hug.

They had left the barn quietly, slowly, leaning against each other, Jenny and Ian lagging behind. Jamie had taken her upstairs to the master bedroom, and -

She blushes hard, eyes popping open, and Jamie smiles, still tracing a finger across the pale scar on her forearm.

“I remember that ye cried, in my arms,” he says. “Yer mouth tasted of salt.”

“I was happy,” she murmurs, although that isn’t quite right.

It had been too much, the metal of her ring warm against her finger, Jamie hot against the rest of her, burning her up to the point that her tears were a cool relief against her skin.

“You did, too,” she says, and he shrugs, unembarrassed.

“Aye. It isna every day that a man marries his other half, is it?”

“I suppose not,” she says. “No matter what it brings.” Maybe it is the peace of this moment that brings the past few months into sharp relief; the worry, the panic, the work that Jamie has done for them all. He’s carried them all the past few months, she thinks, with a feeling that, if not quite guilt, is perilously close.

“Claire,” he says, and tilts her chin up gently, and she blushes again, very aware that her every thought may as well be marching across her forehead in capital letters.

“Having the care of you these last few months hasna been a burden,” he says. “I ken you feel that it has been. It hasna. Every day-” and he turns to face her, holding his hands in hers, “every day that I’ve had ye, was a day that ye were here. With me. I am so grateful, Claire, I couldna tell ye, not if we were to sit here fer the rest of our lives.”

“My life willna be worth much, if ye’re gone,” he continues after a moment. “So, dinna leave me, if ye can help it.”

The setting sun is at his back, and it lights his hair up so it looks like he is blazing, flame licking around his head, kissing his neck. He looks beautiful.

“If I can help it,” she echoes. “I never will.” He smiles, crooked.

“Well,” he says. “That’ll do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this fic. I had a lot of fun writing it, I'd love to hear what you thought!


End file.
